Between The Lines
by foreverlasting24
Summary: He doesn't know why, but every time she leaves, he follows.


_**Hi everyone, I'm Jay. Sadly, I've only recently discovered 10 Things I Hate About You, but I, like most viewers, fell in love with Kat & Patrick and was incredibly upset the show ended the way it did. After reading some wonderful fanfiction here, I got a little inspired myself and decided to write stream-of-consciousness vignettes of what I imagine these two are thinking throughout the 20 episodes. Hopefully I got it right.**_

_**Reviews are much appreciated.  
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><p><em><strong>In The Beginning<strong>_

He doesn't know what to make of her. Frustration boils in his blood, but then it's sweet, and it simmers. She is stingy as hell, difficult beyond measure, always wanting her way on everything. She is an outrageous feminist if he's ever seen one, following strictly to guidelines she unknowingly breaks every day. She is too preoccupied with justice, with the idea of fairness for all, that she neglects what's standing in front of her.

But she's beautiful. God, she's beautiful.

_**He's So Right**_

They are jammed packed in this club; bodies are pressing against each other like solid molecules. The band is loud and blaringly euphoric against her ears, but she cannot make out their distinct melodies when he is standing inches away from her.

Why doesn't he just shut the fuck up already?

He knows nothing about her, what she's thinking, if she's thinking at all tonight.

(He's so right.)

He thinks she came for him – for him! – and not for the band on stage that she's known and loved before any other fan.

(He's so right.)

He thinks he knows exactly what she is feeling when she tilts her head upward, and he leans his face closer and says, _Come on. You want me to kiss you._

(He's so right.)

**Don't Know Why**

He doesn't know why, but when she tucks a skinny strand of long brown hair behind her ear, he smiles.

He doesn't know why, but even when she kicks recycled bottles over him in school, even when she stabs his foot with a trash pole, even when her insanity makes him insane beyond control, even when he wants to, he cannot bring himself to hate her.

He doesn't know why, but when he sees the flames, he grabs the CDs for her, even when his gut is telling him to run the hell away.

He doesn't know why, but when she's upset–which is an emotion of rarity for her–he feels responsible.

He doesn't know why, but every time she leaves, he follows.

_**Between The Lines Pt. 1**_

When he kisses her, she wants to hate him, spite him, because that's all she's ever known when it comes to this thorn in her side.

(Hold me closer.)

She wants to pull herself away, look at him square in the eye, and tell him with the confidence she no longer feels that they cannot spend hours on a rooftop exchanging concocted romances when there is a fire bubbling beneath them with the memory of all they own.

(Kiss me until the flames burns away all our pain.)

She wants to say that she isn't easy, that she deserves more than what he gives her.

(I want you to want me.)

She wants to run away because she doesn't know the girl in the mirror when she is with him.

(Never let me go.)

She wants him to leave her the hell alone, even though she knows that isn't possible for either of them.

(Chase after me.)

_**I Care About You, Too**_

Anger rises inside of him like a volcano ready to rupture. She followed him, goddamn it, she goddamn followed him. But beneath all that disgruntlement, he knows he is no different. Late night window sneak-ins, favors unasked for, talent show, and biodiesel bets – those were all him. And for what? For _her_? He doesn't know what this is anymore, but he knows he doesn't want it to end. So when she pulls over in that beat-up mustang of hers and asks him for forgiveness, he climbs into the vehicle, wordless and stone-stricken but not indignant. He holds her hand, because that's the best he can do.

_I just care about you, okay? _

She says it for the both of them.

_**Pieces of Me**_

There are many things she can handle. She can handle her father's incessant reminders of insipid teenage mistakes and stupidity. She can take her sister's obsession over popularity and marathons after marathons of _The Bachelor_ that appear in her living room all too often. She can tolerate airheads and bozos and naïve individuals who don't give a damn about what's important in this world.

But strong as she is, she has also crazy glued all the elements of her life together in a way that makes sense to her. This connects to this, and this stays in this position; nothing uninvited can clash with another territory, and all territories are charted. She had sculpted everything she knew and felt before, all the shards of glass, into a rugged and stable figure so that she wouldn't ever get hurt.

Tonight, though, he broke her. And somehow, she can't put the pieces back together.

_**Between the Lines Pt. 2**_

Hey.

(I miss you.)

I'm glad I caught you before you left for Nepal.

(I'm sorry I hurt you.)

Keith found this in the back of his van. I know how much you like it.

(I have the guts to punch out every guy in this school, but when it comes to you, I am scared shitless to admit anything.)

Have a safe trip.

(Stay.)

_**Rain, Rain, Go Away**_

She doesn't know how this is supposed to feel, and that frightens her. Questions swim in her mind like a goldfish contained in a small bowl, but they aren't the kinds of inquiries that solve anything she hopes to: _where is he and how is he doing and why isn't he with me_? She drinks ink from a pen, praying words in a journal will help, but they only bury her in a blanket of confusion. She sinks her head into schoolwork, takes a jog around the neighborhood, mediates with her newfound Buddhist friends; but every word reminds her of him, and every face she spots is his, and every road she takes leads the way to his arms.

Sniffling, she wipes her eyes, and breathes in the realization again: _he didn't try to stop me. _

She damns herself for crying over him.

_**Once Upon A Bittersweet Winter**_

It is winter.

Late in the cold season, nearly the end of February, and there is no snow on the ground–when is there ever snow in Southern California?–but it is raining heavily.

It is winter.

The grass is specked with the ludicrousness of her almost send-off to Nepal, and the icicles under each and every car is leaking with his inability to tell her the truth, and the tiny golden leaves and budding cherry blossoms of spring are creeping lazily out of soppy branches and slow dancing to the music of their reunion tonight.

It is winter.

Her hair is like a waterfall showering over the pillows; he brushes her cheek with his fingertips and trails his thumb downward, loving the feel of her soft skin. Slowly, he pulls her body against his, tucks her head against the crook of his shoulder, and whispers her name. He is blithely astounded at the fact that that single word can carry such enormous warmth in the midst of this cruel and frigid storm.

It is winter.

She locks her eyes with his, gently running her hands across the coarse hair on his chest; she can't remember how she and he got here, or even why they are together after he'd hurt her so badly. But she suddenly thinks of how she and her sister, as kids back in Ohio, used to run outside when snow began falling. She recalled opening her mouth to the sky and letting the snowflakes melt against her tongue. It was instantaneous; she was fascinated by both the brevity and immense complacency of the experience. When she zooms back into reality, she smiles and reaches out to him, touching the contours of his face. And then she remembers what she should have never forgotten.

It is winter.

The storm has finally let up, a trace of the sun swimming through her bedroom curtains. They were never the ones for fairytales or happily-ever-afters, but he can tolerate being her Prince Charming, and she can understand why princesses wait for them. And as he pushes himself into her, as she presses her forehead against his, as they both realize the perfect fit of the glass slipper, they can believe that maybe, just maybe, they were made for each other.


End file.
